2. Isaac

CHAPTER 2

ISAAC

The neon lights flash a kaleidoscope of colors across the casino floor below, a blend of dark and bright spots in a dizzying dance. I lean against the railing on the second-floor balcony, looking down at the frenetic energy that vibrates through Eclipse like it's a fucking living thing.

My cousin Georgie, aka The Fat Fuck, stands beside me, his eyes narrowing as he surveys the scene.

He's not really my cousin. More like a cousin of a cousin of someone who screwed my cousin. He took over some of the managerial duties at Eclipse while I was away. Before that, the casino was handled by his father, whose relation to me I also could never figure out.

I don't like Georgie.

He doesn't like me either. But Purgatory and Eclipse can't exist without each other. Purgatory is where the family launders the majority of their money now. Georgie's old man fucked up a long time ago and forgot to clean up a couple of his messes which led the FBI to his doorstep. So Eclipse can't wash those dollars anymore. At least not until the coast is clear.

When it will be clear no one really knows.

"Isaac, my man," Georgie says, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of slot machines and laughter. "I need your opinion on something."

I glance at him, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. "What's up?"

He hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip. If given an opportunity he'd chew it off completely. The asshole would eat his own mother, for fuck's sake. "I have a feeling there's something going on that shouldn't be. Something fishy."

"You have a feeling, huh?" I chuckle darkly, mostly to myself. "Is that a gut feeling, by any chance?" I drop my gaze at his stomach. Poor dude probably hasn't seen his dick in years.

Georgie has the audacity to look offended. He huffs but says nothing else.

"Look, fishy doesn't tell me much, Georgie. I need more details."

And sadly, no matter how much I hate this fuck, he's been at the casino longer than I have been at the club. If he thinks something is wrong, chances are, he's right. The first thing all members of our family are trained on when we start helping with business is how to spot people or activities that take our money away.

I straighten from my slouch, running a hand through my dark, slightly gelled hair. I don't particularly enjoy styling it, but if I don't, it just sticks into each and every direction. Not a good look on someone in my position. "Tell me what you've seen," I prompt. "Anything out of the ordinary, anyone who looks out of place."

"Possibly," Georgie admits, frustration creeping into his tone. "Listen I know a lot of shit is happening in this building but I also know all the people we're doing business with."

"Alright," I say slowly, my eyes scanning the floor once more, but it's impossible to see something in that chaos unless you know what to look for. "Are you saying someone unauthorized is doing business inside Eclipse?"

He slowly tips his chin. "You have a couple of minutes to look at some security footage?"

I glance at my Rolex to check the time. I don't really have to be anywhere in the next hour. Jeremy is supposed to pick a new security for the club to replace Jaheim who got himself arrested, but I trust Jeremy completely to make that decision. Sometimes, he likes to run some men by me but I'm not looking to add anyone to my actual crew right now. Just a solid guard, so the club is covered. Most people who work at Purgatory don't know what we do behind closed doors. I'm of the opinion that the fewer employees all up in my business, the safer that business will be.

"Come," Georgie says, motioning for me to follow him.

We leave the balcony and make our way down a curving, intimately lit hallway. The sound of slots gets thinner and thinner as we continue on until we stop in front a small, nondescript door hidden in the shadows of the corridor.

Georgie punches in a code and the door clicks open.

We step inside the room where the air is stale and stuffy and smells like potato chips and cheap coffee. Rows of monitors cover the walls, each showing a different part of the casino—the slot machines, the tables, the entrance.

A bored-looking guard sits at the desk, scrolling on his phone. He glances up when we enter, then scrambles to his feet.

"Mr. Blumberg, sir. How can I help you?" he rattles off, then looks at me. "Mr. Thoreau."

Georgie ignores him, going straight for the monitors. "I need you to pull up the footage from the high roller tables, yesterday between ten and midnight."

The guard nods and gets to work, fingers flying over the keyboard. The screens flicker as he searches through hours of archived footage.

I stand behind him, arms crossed, watching the blur of images intently. Georgie hovers nearby, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

Finally, after several minutes of waiting, The Fat Fuck gestures to move closer.

The security guard offers his chair to me and steps aside. I don't know if it'll save the guy from Georgie giving him an earful later on.

But the truth is—Georgie isn't great with people. He doesn't care about creating the conditions that are workable for his team. And that's one of the most important things in this business. But who am I to tell the older family members what they should do? I've been out just over two years. Haven't earned my stripes. Not yet.

"Watch closely," Georgie murmurs, hitting play.

I focus my attention on the screen, watching the high rollers losing a shit ton of money at one of the tables.

"You know this guy?" Georgie jabs his fat, ringed finger into the screen when some shady-looking dude in his mid-thirties starts chatting up one of the high rollers. He's skinny with a thin goatee. Light shirt. Dark jeans. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I study the image carefully. "Never seen him before."

"Look it here now." Then Georgie instructs the guard to pull up whatever footage he has available from the elevator and the penthouse just past midnight.

I watch.

The same high roller stumbles into the room. Ten minutes later, the elevator doors slide open and I see a girl who looks no older than twelve or thirteen. Her body isn't even fully developed.

My stomach twists.

I blame it on the fact that I forgot to eat breakfast today but deep down I know it's not it. It's the girl.

She is led inside the penthouse by the same dude with a goatee, dress short and flashy to ensure everything that's needed is on display. The makeup is too bright—probably to conceal her real age. But I'm not dumb. I know the difference between a grown person and a child and this is a child. Some old drunk motherfucker is buying a child for the night.

"Who do they work for?" I hiss out, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"No idea," Georgie replies, his face all contorted. "But they don't belong in my casino, cuz. I never allowed this fool to bring his merch around."

His casino.

Huh.

"Find out who he is and who told him he could conduct business on the Thoreau property," I order, clenching my fist at my side, struggling to keep the anger bubbling just beneath the surface in check.

But it's too late. I can feel cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. The air is suddenly too suffocating here and I think I need to throw up.

Meanwhile, Georgie goes off on his security guard, pissed about the usage of a personal device while on the clock.

"Let me know when you have the info," I choke out and dash through the door.

I don't have to be listening to his drivel.

In the hallway, when Georgie can't see me, I press my palms against my eyes as if I can block out the images the security footage has just unearthed. But I can't really be seen out of control. Not even by the Eclipse employees. Because one day I want to run the casino too. If rumors of Isaac Thoreau being a fucking emotional pussy spread, I can kiss my dream goodbye.

Hell no.

As I make my way through the second floor and toward the staff restrooms where I'm hoping to get a moment of quiet, the cacophony of slot machines and laughter coming from below only serves to heighten my mounting anxiety.

My breathing is shallow and rapid as I push the door to the restroom open. It slams against the tiled wall and the sound cracks through my head. I'm desperate for some semblance of solitude. But even in this quiet space, my mind refuses to let go of the images.

All the fucking blood.

On my hands.

It's never going to wash away.

"Fucking fuck," I hiss under my breath, clenching the black counter. My knuckles turn white with the force of my grip, but the pain is a welcome distraction. I actually welcome pain now. It means there are still moments I can feel. It's better than being constantly numb.

The cold marble of the sink bites into my palms as I lean against it, struggling to regain my composure. My reflection in the mirror is a stranger–dark circles under haunted eyes and sweat beading on my furrowed brow. The carefully styled hair and the strategically unbuttoned shirt underneath my leather jacket don't really hide all the ugly inside.

"Focus," I command myself through gritted teeth, gripping the edges of the sink tighter. "Remember who you are. You're fucking Blade."

But my thoughts are no longer my own, dragged away by the relentless tide of memories that threaten to swallow me completely. Fragmented flashes of darkness, pain, and fear claw their way to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.

The bile rises in my throat as my stomach twists violently, and I stumble toward the stall furthest from the restroom entrance. Flinging the door open, I barely have time to drop to my knees before my stomach convulses, discharging its contents with ruthless efficiency. The acrid stench of vomit fills the air, but I can't tear myself away from the filth. I'm filth. My body is wracked with spasms long after there's nothing left to give.

I don't know how much time passes before I'm my own man again and before I realize I'm still in the stall.

I push off the floor and lean back against the stall wall, my skin slick with cold sweat and I'm in desperate need of a shower. In prison, those were a fucking luxury and the first couple of years they were a nightmare too.

I'm gasping for air, trying to find my cool when I hear the door to the bathroom swoosh open, shattering the fragile sanctuary I'd sought.

Irritation surges through me.

I pride myself on my ability to keep my temper in check.

But today isn't a good day and this piece of shit—whoever he is—is bothering me.

Fumbling for the gun hidden under my jacket, I peek out from the stall and see some fool. Immediately, I assess him. Or at least what I see from my spot. Late twenties. Maybe early thirties. Lean. Fit. Decent suit. No wrinkles. Black hair just past his shoulders tied at the nape of his neck.

I don't know him.

And he seems to be fascinated with the tile because he is taking fucking forever before he finally opens the faucet and slips his hands under the stream of water.